Page 53 of Wolf's Keep

Gaharet speared Lothair with a cautionary look. “That is a conversation best kept private, do you not think?”

“You are right. We will converse as soon as time permits. I am rather eager to begin this new project. I will see the destruction of Blois and all who stand in my way.”

Gaharet clenched his jaw. Lothair would never get his werewolf army. Gaharet would make certain of it.

Chapter Twenty-One

They arrived at Langeais by mid-afternoon, the sun angling across the landscape, Erin’s weary mind rousing at the sight of the village wall. They entered the gate, waved through by the gatehouse guard. Erin craned her neck from side-to-side, marveling at all she saw. Of the Langeais she knew, there was no sign. Its modern streets, stone buildings, cafes spilling their latte sipping clientele onto sidewalks and the majestic château were absent. In their place, a sprawl of wattle and daub buildings smothered in a smoky haze. Children played alongside the dirt road, horses stomped inside a stable, a blacksmith pounded away beside a hot forge and, rising out of the hill above it all, imposing and formidable, the square stone keep jutting out of the landscape.

Now there’s a phallic symbol if ever I’ve seen one.

Erin glanced at Comte Lothair.

Compensating for something?

Erin covered her mouth, swallowing a laugh. Instinct told her Comte Lothair would not appreciate her observation.

Villagers scurried out of the way as they plodded through the streets, the comte’s guard flanking them. Shoulders hunched, eyes wary, children gathered to their mothers were shuffled out of sight. From the corner of her eye, Erin scrutinized the comte, careful not to stare or draw his attention. If he was aware of the villager’s reactions, he didn’t show it. Deep in conversation with Gaharet about a neighboring comte’s army, he paid them no attention. Erin drew her arms about herself, suddenly chilled.

Written accounts of Comte Lothair were few, but what she’d gleaned from them painted a disturbing picture. Skillful in battlefield tactics, he’d steadily expanded his county. Territory he had claimed by force. Several historical documents mentioned his unpredictable temper, his fearsome reputation, his infidelity throughout his first marriage and his questionable grip on sanity. Some accounts were a little more eloquent, professing to be able to see the crazy in his eyes ‘glowing like a demonic fire had settled in his soul’.

Rivals and detractors often penned unflattering details, so Erin and her colleagues had viewed these accounts with a healthy amount of skepticism. Observing the reaction of the villagers, listening to Gaharet’s guarded responses, glowing demonic eyes aside, Erin could no longer question the truth of these accounts.Le Diableindeed. Comte Lothair was a man to be feared.

Erin turned away, her hands clenching in her lap. What had Gaharet done in proclaiming her his betrothed? Had protecting her hastened his own demise? A large hand covered her clenched fingers, giving them a gentle squeeze. She had to trust Gaharet knew what he was doing.

They passed through the square—no sign of the fate soon to befall the comtesse. Shouts rang out as they approached the keep gatehouse, and guards hurried to open the gate. They rode through, entering the bailey and dismounting. Gaharet handed the reins to a waiting stable hand. His sword, he relinquished to the gate guard. Gathering her close to his side, he led her up the hill toward the keep, his presence a reassuring comfort.

The bailey bustled with activity. Peasants and servants scurried about. Chevaliers in varying-colored surcoats entered the gate under the watchful eyes of the guards. Stable hands lead horses away with a clop of their hooves and clinking harnesses. A few noblemen in fine robes of deep reds and dark blues lingered, talking to one another, their wives standing dutifully beside them. Living history flowed around her and it took her breath away. The sights, the sounds, the smell of wood smoke hanging in the air.

Gaharet leaned toward her. “So, what do you think of Langeais Keep?”

Halting, Erin tilted her head up, following the wall of the keep to the very top. “Impressive.”

The understatement of the century.

The solid, square tower loomed above them. Far more dramatic in its entirety than the crumbling ruins so familiar to Erin, its forbidding presence dominated the landscape. Never again would she look at the ruins of the keep and not remember this moment, seeing it how it once stood guarding the crossing of the Loire River.

“Gaharet,” called Lothair. “When you have your betrothed settled, we have things to discuss.” He turned on his heel and stalked away, his guards trailing behind him.

Gaharet steered her across the grounds, through a small, protected entrance, and into the keep hall. A low buzz of conversation echoed about the enormous room, a fire flickered in a pit in the center, and men in chain mail mingled, the scent of meadowsweet hanging thick in the air. Here, unlike in Gaharet’s keep, there were other odors the sweet rushes on the floor could not conceal. Odors of sweat, dampness and something she couldn’t, and didn’t want to name.

A flash of gray fur and a long tail scurried across in front of her, disappearing into the throng of people. She stifled a squeal.

Gaharet shrugged. “Welcome to Langeais Keep.” Placing his hand at the small of her back, he guided her forward into the crowd of men.

Armored chevaliers parted, conversation paused, faces turned to follow their progress across the room. As they passed, whispers pursued them and Erin faltered, her throat constricting. A sea of bearded faces turned in their direction. One young man nodded at them, another smiled, and still more stared at her with open curiosity.

They made their way through the men to the far side of the hall, Gaharet unfazed by the obvious interest of so many, while every stare, every muttered word, prickled up Erin’s spine. She never could stand being the center of attention. Not like this. Not since…

Thomas Mathiesen.

Erin rolled her shoulders back, straightening her spine. She could do this. She wasn’t a fifteen-year-old kid anymore. She licked her dry lips and gave a tentative smile as she passed chevalier after chevalier. She hastened her steps until they reached a doorway on the other side of the hall.

“I will settle you in with the women, for I must attend Lothair,” said Gaharet. “Stay there until I come fetch you.”

She nodded, ascending the stairs with Gaharet. The rumble of conversation returned to the hall, the quiet of the stairwell a blessed relief.

“Be careful, Gaharet. I don’t know why Comte Lothair confined you in that cell,” she murmured, keeping her voice low, “but it seems we’ve already antagonized him with your announcement of our betrothal.”

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